She chanced to glance at Harboro’s face an instant later, and she was dismayed a little by its expression: that of an almost violent distaste. What did it mean? Was it because she had given a coin to the beggar? There could have been no other reason. But why should he look as if her action had contaminated her in some fashion—as if there had been communication between her and the unfortunate anciano? As if there had been actual contact?
“You wouldn’t have done that?” she said.
“No, I shouldn’t have done it,” he replied.
“I can’t think why. The wretched creature—I should have felt troubled if I’d ignored him.”
“But it’s a profession. It’s as much a part of the national customs as dancing and drinking.”
“Yes, I know. A profession ... but isn’t that all the more reason why we should give him a little help?”
“A reason why you should permit yourself to be imposed upon?”
“I can’t help thinking further than that. After all, it’s he and his kind that must have been imposed upon in the beginning. It’s being a profession makes me believe that all the people who might have helped him, who might have given him a chance to be happy and respectable, really conspired against him in some way. You have to believe that it’s the rule that some must be comfortable and some wretched.”
“A beggar is a beggar,” said Harboro. “And he was filthy.”
“But don’t you suppose he’d rather be the proprietor of a wine-shop, or something of that sort, if he had had any choice?”